Yesterday's Gone: Season One Part 9

John turned toward her and leaned over, vomiting on the road.

Jimmy and Desmond simply stared. Mary reached the guardrail, looked down below and immediately wished she'd stayed in the car.

Corpses filled the river, in the hundreds, if not thousands, bobbing up and down, floating like logs as birds feasted on their rotting flesh.

"Well, I think we know where all the people went," Jimmy said, his face ashen.

BRENT FOSTER.

Brent wasn't sure how long he hid in the pitch black, waiting for a looming dread to fade from the apartment. Maybe 20 minutes. Probably two hours. Hard to tell in the dark and with nothing to count.

He wasn't sure what he was hiding from, either, but something in his lizard brain made him run from the downstairs apartment. Something told him if he stayed, he'd die. He hadn't even worked up the courage to look out his windows.

What did he see?

Though he couldn't see the man on the street's face well enough to see his expression, his run told Brent all he needed to know. The man was fleeing from death.

Maybe the city had suffered a terrorist attack, and the man saw the bad guys coming. Or, Brent suddenly thought, perhaps the man had something to do with what happened and was running from the police or Army or whoever the h.e.l.l was now in control of the city.

Brent had only recently moved to New York, so he was a tourist to 9/11, not a citizen. But he knew enough to know someone was surely out there evacuating people, searching for survivors, or both. He couldn't expect someone to find him; he'd have to find them. And that meant leaving the building.

He went back into the living room, glanced out the window and down to the street below. The city, or what he could see of it, was a morgue. He went to the fridge and grabbed another water, sat on his couch, and put his feet up on the coffee table, where a framed photo of his family faced him.

They took the picture last Christmas, just in time for cards. Brent thought sending family photos for cards was smarmy, but Gina insisted. He wondered if it was something women did to compete with their friends to prove who really had a nicer-looking or happier family. All Brent saw in 90 percent of the photos were uncomfortable children and miserable spouses holding tight to a veneer of love.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

He held the photo, eyes fixed on Ben's joyous smile.

Brent hadn't wanted kids, not really. The world was far too f.u.c.ked for that. Ben was an accident. Gina's plumbing made him a one in a million shot at best. Same as Ben's odds when Gina was rushed to the hospital bleeding at seven and a half months.

Only then did Brent realize how much he'd come to love the thought of having a son, and let his cynicism face the light of hope. When the doctors came out to update him on the status of the emergency C-section and told him he had a son, he was nothing but tears. And when he finally saw his son in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, his heart melted. Ben was their miracle. And for one not inclined to believe in miracles, that was no small statement.

Sitting there on the couch, Brent felt guiltier than ever about trading his family for work.

He'd always wanted to be a reporter. When he landed a gig in New York, his dream came true. Sure, it wasn't The Times, just The Apple Tribune, but still, he was in the heart of it all, covering feature stories in the city of a million stories. But the newspaper business was dying: the Internet, evaporating advertising, and a cast and crew that couldn't stop the bleeding. As the cuts came, he was always spared (so far), but it meant working that much harder to survive the next round.

He rarely saw his family.

It was a temporary sacrifice, he told himself, and a necessary one. He was working toward something, and getting there a word at a time. And he knew good writers, d.a.m.ned good writers, who were unemployed, hungry, and writing anything they could just to keep food in their fridge.

And while he used to dream of the life of a newspaper writer in New York, as something close to being famous, or at least respected, the reality of his role was a slap in the face. Most people treated him like s.h.i.+t. Especially people who disagreed with the politics of his paper, something he had nothing to do with. He was a features guy, telling nice little stories about the city and its eclectic denizens.

But most people didn't care. You work for the wrong paper, they treat you like a lying, thieving, evil b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And even when they didn't hate him for the paper's politics, they often b.i.t.c.hed when he got some little facet of a story wrong, or more often, didn't stick with the narrative they imagined the story would take. It never ceased to amaze him how many people would get bent out of shape or threaten lawsuits over a nice story!

Now, sitting alone with no idea where his family was, the vanity of his job was apparent. He was too busy trying to impress strangers and win their love, while neglecting his family who already loved him.

Brent pulled Stanley Train from his pocket, looked at the train's big goofy smile, and he felt his heart fade into an ache. Ben was gone. The thought that he might never play with his toy train again shattered Brent into tears.

Brent spent about half an hour feeling sorry for himself while fear ran rampant in his head. Then something swelled inside him. Anger. Anger at himself and his inaction. His family was out there - he hoped - and it was his job to find them.

He grabbed a backpack from his closet, filled it with food, drinks, and clothes, wrote his wife another note - this one saying he'd be back at midnight - and headed out the door. He left it unlocked since Gina left her keys inside. If someone broke in, let 'em. Halfway down the hall, he raced back to his apartment, grabbed the framed photo from the couch, put it in his backpack, and headed out into the city.

First, though, he'd need a gun. He found one in the fourth apartment he kicked in. A revolver with a box of bullets. He'd fired a gun twice at a range, but never owned one. No matter, he knew enough to be dangerous.

He stepped out of his apartment building and onto the street. The air was cool, and a fog was rolling in, like a wooly icing atop the haunted hallways of the abandoned concrete empire. Brent couldn't smell any smoke, or anything out of the ordinary. A good sign, he guessed.

He stared off in the same direction as the man had been staring before losing his s.h.i.+t, but saw nothing odd. Well, no more odd than the ghost streets, and buildings getting swallowed by the fog descending on the city. The fog was different than normal, though Brent couldn't quite place what the difference was.

He crossed the four lanes of West End Avenue to the apartment building the man had ducked into. It was roughly the same size as his, 15 stories tall. He wasn't sure how he'd find the guy, or if he'd be dangerous, but Brent had to establish contact with the only person he'd seen.

When he reached the double doors that would normally be locked or tended by a doorman, he noticed that one of the two windows was shattered. Gla.s.s covered the red doormat inside. Brent put his hand on the gun tucked inside his jacket and stepped through the doorway. Gla.s.s crunched beneath his sneakers. The lobby desk was deserted and the elevators were dead, which meant he had to take the stairs and begin his ascent.

The stairwell was dimly lit by emergency lights. His footsteps echoed off the walls. He didn't bother with stealth. He hoped the guy, if he were still around, would show himself so Brent wouldn't have to search the whole d.a.m.ned building.

Brent got his wish as he opened the door to the second floor landing and came face to face with a pistol. On the other end of the gun, a wild-haired disheveled, skinny guy in his late 40's or early 50's wearing thick black rimmed gla.s.ses. Brent's hand held his gun tight in his pocket, but made no move to reveal it. Instead, he aimed it at the guy, through his jacket.

"Anyone see you come in here?"

Brent shook his head, "No, I don't think so. I didn't see anyone out there."

"Who sent you?" the guy asked, his voice tuned to nervous.

"n.o.body, my name is Brent Foster, I live across the street. I'm looking for my family."

"Brent Foster?" the guy said, his eyes darting up for a moment, accessing memory. "Brent Foster who writes for the Tribune?"

Great, the moment he'd always hoped would never happen. Some wacko with a gun recognizing him as a reporter. Hope he's a fan.

"Yes," Brent said, reluctantly, bracing for reaction.

The guy lowered the gun and a broad smile crossed his face.

"Stanley Byrd, but you can call me Stan. I'm a big fan of your work, sir." the guy said, putting the gun awkwardly in a jacket that was about 20 years out of fas.h.i.+on.

Brent let go of his own gun and shook Stan's clammy hand.

"What have you heard? Did you see anything?"

"Nothing," Brent said, "I woke up and my wife and son were gone. And apparently the whole d.a.m.ned apartment building and everyone on the streets is gone, too."

"Yeah, the whole city is gone, but not just the city." Stan said with the certainty of someone who took such things in stride.

"What do you mean?"

"Come, come, I want to introduce you to some people," Stan said, turning and heading down the hall. "I can't believe you're here. I read that story you did on the blind jazz guy who plays in the subways to put his son through college. G.o.dd.a.m.n, that was beautiful stuff."

"Thanks," Brent said, following, hand in his jacket. Just in case.

Stan brought him to the last apartment in the hallway, knocked three times, paused, then knocked twice, paused again, then two more quick knocks.

Bolts, several of them by the sounds of it, unbolted and the door opened. A bald, buffed, stone-faced Hispanic in a tight black tee greeted them, arms drowning in ink. He nodded and let them in.

All charm, this one.

Sitting on a sofa even older than Stan's clothes, was a blonde haired woman in her early 40's or so. She reminded Brent of a doctor or scientist, and he was rarely wrong when judging people by appearance. Stan was nuts, muscles was angry, and the lady, well, she was probably the brains of the bunch.

Muscles locked the door and Stan introduced everyone.

"Everyone, this is Brent Foster, from the Tribune. Brent, this is Luis Torres, who lives five floors up. And this is Melora Mitch.e.l.l, who lives in your building, actually."

Luis nodded. Melora stood up and reached out to shake Brent's hand. Her hand was cold, thin. She retreated quickly - or perhaps Brent was just imagining things - as if she were aware of Brent's judgment of her hand's temperature.

"Have a seat, Brent," Stan said.

Brent took a seat in one of two recliners across from the couch. Stan took the other, while Luis stood up, arms crossed.

"We didn't think we'd find another," Melora said. "How long have you been having the dream?"

Brent didn't have a chance to ask what she was talking about.

"Where were you at 2:15 a.m.?" Stan asked. It seemed as if he were waiting for a specific response to the time.

"In bed. Why?"

"What do you remember?"

"Nothing. I went to bed dog-a.s.s tired, woke up this morning with a headache, and the world was gone. Why are you asking me about that time?"

"Because that's when The Collapse first started."

"What do you mean, Collapse?" Brent asked, glancing now at Melora to see if she were also buying into Stan's weirdo speak. Her face was all business.

"At 2:15 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, nearly 99.9% of the population of the planet vanished. Gone, poof, into the unknown."

"What are you talking about?" Brent asked, now glancing at Luis, also stone-faced.

"We're calling it The Collapse. And we've known it was going to happen for years."

Brent stayed silent. He was certain his expression was louder than words, anyway.

"The four of us have been dreaming of this day and hour since we were children. We found one another five years ago on some message boards, and started researching this thing, trying to prepare. We even came up with a name for ourselves," Stan said with a laugh, "We call ourselves the 215 Society."

Okay, that's it, I'm outta here. Brent began to think of a way to get the h.e.l.l out of the room without offending Luis.

"We're not crazy," Melora said with a professorial smile. "We've been dreaming of this moment for most of our lives. Something in the dream told us that the world would be gone and we had to prepare."

"Prepare? How?" Brent asked, his curiosity getting the better of him even if he was chasing delusion. It wouldn't be the first time he entertained some loon with crazy, tin foil hat stories.

"Well, we never really knew, to be honest," Stan said, "At first, we thought we were supposed to warn people. We tried that, but n.o.body listens to you when you say the world's gonna end. And we didn't want to lose our jobs or get thrown in the loony bin. So we kept mum, just trying to be ready in whatever ways we could."

"Wait," Brent said, looking around the room, and trying to see into the hall, which likely led to a single bedroom and bath. "You said there were four of you; where's the fourth?"

"We haven't seen her yet," Melora said. "She was supposed to come here last night to wait with us. But she never showed."

"So you all stayed here for the end of the world? What happened at 2:15 a.m.?" Brent asked. "Did you see people vanish? Was there some big light from a UFO? Was G.o.d here? What happened?"

Melora smiled one of those smiles that someone gives you when they're looking down on you. "You think we're crazy, don't you?"

"I don't know what to think," Brent said, "I'm just looking for my family and would like to know what the h.e.l.l happened."

"They're gone," Luis said from behind. "They're all gone."

Brent was getting p.i.s.sed, but kept his attention on Melora as he spoke. "They're not gone. I'm going to find them."

"I'm afraid Luis is right," Melora said. "Everyone is gone. Which is why I'm confused. You didn't answer my question before. Have you not had the dreams, too?"

"No," Brent said, standing. "I didn't have any crazy dreams. I told you what happened and now I'm going to go out to find my family. Thank you for your time and your . . . stories."

Brent pushed his way past Luis, who didn't bother to stop him.

"Wait," Stan called out, his voice hyper. "There's something you've gotta see."

Brent was going to ignore him, just head the h.e.l.l out of there, get back out on the street and leave Crazy Town. But again, his reporter's curiosity tugged at him. Even if these people didn't know what the h.e.l.l was happening, he wanted to understand what they thought was going down.

"What?" Brent asked, going to the kitchen where Stan and Melora were pulling something from a box. A small video recorder.

Stan handed it to Brent.

"Press play."

He did.

The camera showed the time in the bottom right corner. 2:14 a.m. The scene was the room he was in now, except the chairs and couch were all moved aside, and the three 215ers were sitting on the floor talking.

"Should be any minute now," Stan said in the video.